If you're a regular here, you're undoubtedly familiar with the disarray of my brain's internal wiring, which often leads to neurotransmitter imbalances and, eventually, to this blog. Finding humor in the absurdities of my daily existence is, of course, the bedrock of The Circular Journey.
What you might not realize, however, is that when I first put fingers to keyboard, I hoped to unravel the winding path from my origins in Shady Grove—a world now shrouded in the mists of time—into the wider, often wonderful, world I inhabit today.
A Glimpse of Shady Grove
Shady Grove was (and probably still is) a sliver of rural paradise, nestled comfortably between the gentle curves of a freshwater lake and the majestic Tennessee River. One might be tempted to call it idyllic, if one were loose with the facts, a habit I strive to avoid.
This tiny community boasted one long, flat country road with a stop sign at one end that should have included one of those warnings you see on old maps, "Beware of Dragons." The road was bookended by churches with such strict tenets that even the local squirrels observed an unnatural civility on Sundays.
It was here, amid the dappled sunlight filtering through ancient oaks, that young Genome first encountered the rich tapestry of human eccentricity that would forever shape his worldview.
While the events described will be drawn from the actual experiences of my youth, I will employ what I like to think of as "creative non-fiction," and what my Great Aunt Cynthia would term "stretching the truth until its ribs squeak." I'll be recounting true events, but I'll highlight certain aspects to capture the inherent humor and absurdity that my younger self, bless his heart, was too busy living through to fully appreciate.
Unless you're new here, you know that I draw inspiration from that master chronicler of English country life, P.G. Wodehouse, whose Blandings Castle stories remain the pinnacle of literary comedy. I make no claims to approaching his genius, but will do my utmost to capture something of his spirit in describing the inhabitants of the Grove.
And what inhabitants they were! Allow me to provide a brief introduction for two of the main characters you'll encounter in the coming days:
Great Aunt Cynthia, who operated as a sort of alternate mother, dispensing wisdom and peach cobblers with equal generosity. Her kitchen was a realm of culinary magic, where recipes existed not in written form but in the mystical measurement system of "pinches," "dashes," and "just enough."
You may remember Aunt Cynthia and Uncle Paul from an earlier post. It was Aunt Cynthia, who was awakened by an early morning car crash outside her bedroom window, and shouted, "Wake up, Paul, and get your pants on, Jesus has come back." Uncle Paul, always the practical one in the family, woke and replied, "If Jesus is here, I don't think he'll mind that I'm in my pajamas."
Aunt Cynthia loved to sit on the front porch on Sunday afternoons and regale the neighborhood with songs made famous by George Beverly Shea, the primary soloist for the Billy Graham crusades. The song for which he is most famously known, "How Great Thou Art," was a favorite of Aunt Cynthia.
She had one of those Ethel Merman* voices, and the lyrics echoed down the holler, across the lake, and beyond. I'm certain that once we develop instruments sensitive enough to pick up ancient sound waves, I'll hear her voice once again, singing "O Lord my God, when I in awesome wonder..."
Aunt Cynthia loved to ride the lawn mower--it was the only motorized vehicle she could drive. She even used it to visit neighbors in the Grove. It was she who kept the lawn neat, and her husband, Uncle Paul, once told my father that he couldn't bear watching her mowing the grass in the midday heat of summer, so he moved his hammock from the front yard to the back where he wouldn't have to see her.
Our other next-door neighbor was Great Aunt Maggie, the family's unofficial guidance counselor. She approached problems with the analytical precision of a chess grandmaster and the vocabulary of a sailor on shore leave. Her advice, while invariably sound, was delivered with such bracing directness that one often needed to lie down afterward.
Aunt Maggie was known around Shady Grove as the resident "witch." Anywhere else, she'd simply have been called the herbalist, possessing all that wonderfully arcane knowledge about wild plants and their surprising ability to soothe the human condition. I always fancied myself her favorite, though it dawns on me now that I was probably just conveniently located next door.
She taught me how to identify the plants she needed for her elixirs and salves and sent me into the surrounding forests to collect what she needed. She cured all the usual suspects--headaches, colds, sore throats, tummy trouble, bruises, cuts. She even put together a poultice* that pulled a tiny piece of glass out of my heel.
The backdrop to these characters and their exploits was a community bound together by tradition, hard work, and weekend gatherings where bluegrass jam sessions would materialize on front porches as naturally as morning dew. The residents—descendants of Welsh, Irish, and Scottish settlers—carried in their blood a certain stubborn self-reliance mingled with an appreciation for music, storytelling, and occasional bouts of good-natured feuding.
It was a place where time moved according to its own particular rhythm—marked not by the ticking of clocks but by the changing of seasons, the ripening of crops, and the rotation of Sunday sermon topics. The outside world, with its politics and progress, seemed to maintain a respectful distance, as though recognizing that Shady Grove operated according to its own immutable laws.
In the coming installments of what I shall grandly term "The Shady Grove Chronicles," I hope to transport you to this singular place and time. You will witness young Genome's navigation of the complexities of rural life, his encounters with the profound wisdom and magnificent peculiarities of his elders, and his gradual realization that the seemingly simple community of his youth contained universes of complexity.
So, I invite you to join me on this circular journey back to where it all began. Just be sure to pack a willingness to laugh, a fondness for the absurd, and perhaps a pinch (or a dash, or just the right amount) of forgiveness for the follies of youth. I'll do my very best to make the trip worth your while.
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